


(Maybe We Are)

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: ? I guess. I think I'm out of tags now., First Kiss, Getting Together, Hanahaki Disease, I suppose!, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, umm.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: The cough is polite, the fingers that come up to the tongue--two stroke above, thumb tucked against the cleft on the underside--matter-of-fact as they lift the foreign object away.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	(Maybe We Are)

**Author's Note:**

> Mihawk: oh my godd :| i'm going fucking craaceeee  
> Shanks: HEY guys lol I spit flowers now

The cough is polite, the fingers that come up to the tongue--two stroke above, thumb tucked against the cleft on the underside--matter-of-fact as they lift the foreign object away. A single red petal, limp and filmed over with spit. Spidery in the way a petal will get when soaked and exposed to strain, veiny little cracks of burgundy bleeding beneath scarlet. Rose. Mihawk's eyes narrow, and he tries to cast it aside with a snap of the hands. It tears on his fingers instead, wet and clinging.

He finds them tucked in his molars, spilling bitter onto his tongue when his teeth grind, stalks of white acanthus tickling against his tonsils and making his lungs spasm and ache. Nauseating pinks and whites and deep, deep crimsons, coquelicots and cardinals, spat between mouthfuls and regurgitated into meals taken in the company of strangers. 

For the first time in his life, Mihawk finds himself subject to pitying eyes. Every parting of the lips is conservative, for fear of a blush-tipped wild rose resting somewhere on the base of his tongue, curling thorns into his trachea, for fear of the pitying eyes finding the flower and staring holes in its wilting petals. Part of him is selfishly pleased, not for the attention, but for the ill-concealed secret, the way he seems to be bursting at the seams with flora. This helpless, vulnerable sort of pleasure only bolsters his frustrations, self-discipline and physical composition disintegrating in lockstep with each hacked blossom, each vine he unspools from deep in his guts, thick with congealed blood and flecks of candy pink flesh. 

Hydrangea and thin, leafy stalks with nubs of upturned bell shaped blossoms so saturated with blood Mihawk can’t quite tell what they are--not that he’d been quite able to pick apart the others, dissect them for purpose and answer, even if he understands the smear of blood on his lip the same shade as the petal indicates  _ love, passion. _ He begs no question. 

There has really only ever been one man to spill his blood. 

* * *

“What the fuck did you eat?” Beckman’s brow is furrowing, leaning over a hung-over Shanks as he rests his cheek on the toilet seat.

“Ooh,” a burp, a giddy smile, “didn’t peg you for the type to play that game, Benn. Nasty.” He swipes his knuckles over his grin, catches the droop of a red columbine blossom between his parted fingers. His eyes widen, and his head tips again, red locks nearly skimming the pool of half-digested petals until Beckman’s hand shoots down to lift his captain’s head. 

“Shanks,” Beckman says, and ooh, first name, no epithets, no titles, mouth slack in exasperation but stare bleeding worry in the hard creases of his face. 

“Ah, yeah, that’s pretty weird.” Beckman thunks his head against the toilet bowl, flips the brim of his straw hat down to cover his face. 

In the morning: black tulip, and another, petals white with licks of amaranthine tracing the center seam. Yasopp laughs, thumbing the petals apart as Shanks picks his teeth. 

“What’s the joke?” Shanks says, coughing fit melted into eagerness to play along.

“Should’ve seen him earlier,” Benn says with one of those cigarette smoke chuckles, smoothing a cool palm over Shanks’ collarbones, smearing away drying spit and tacky flora, “red rose.” Shanks laughs and dribbles a bloody loogie on the ridges of his knuckles, and Benn watches the clot drip between them with mild disgust. 

“Are we detouring?” Roux’s head lifts, grin sloppy when he slaps a wide palm over Beckman’s shoulder, hard enough to jolt him in place. 

“S’pose so, boys,” Shanks shows gums flecked with organic material, tucks his chin in and brings his hands up to rest on the backs of interlocked palms with a dreamy sigh. The crew laughs at the lovesick display, and it makes Shanks’ smile stretch wider, chest snug with pleasure and anticipation.

“Ah, well,” Beckman’s lip quirks, cigarette hopping from side to side, “You know how these things work anyway. Who’s to say we need to detour at all?” 

* * *

“Hawkeye,” Shanks grins, arm outstretched for a shake. Mihawk’s head drops, gaze narrowing; His pulse hammers beneath his skin, presses to fill the gaps between his consciousness and his eardrums, and he nearly staggers as he reaches for  _ Yoru _ . For all its little pleasantries, sickness is sickness, but even more so, he is eager, throat tickling in urgency. 

“A duel, Akagami?” The light catches on  _ Yoru, _ a slice of clean white in the universe between himself and the other swordsman. Never has he instigated--matched him strike for strike, yes, but never goading him into a fight himself. Mihawk doesn’t let himself get swept along with the thought, clearing his head with a swipe of his tongue along his inner cheek to defend his title. 

Shanks shakes his head, takes a couple strides closer. Mihawk resists the urge to duck his head to cough, feels the petals unfurling against the backs of his teeth, stance tightening instead. The other’s posture remains loose, open as he approaches, but strung in a way to suggest motion, like a just-plucked string, still vibrating. There is no hesitation when he takes Mihawk’s opposite hand, shoulder leveling with  _ Yoru _ ’s flattened blade and letting the weapon glance his skin. Bafflingly,  _ vulnerably, _ Mihawk lets him. 

He smears a single red petal into Mihawk’s palm. Mihawk blinks at it, smudging color into the pale lines of his palm, glistening and wet. It tears in two sticky halves against the nape of Shanks’ neck when he wraps his hand around his throat and pulls the other in to kiss him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I'm like BOOO no pining for this pairing but I wanted an excuse to write something cliche. Ah. Also LOL ~family man~ Yasopp knowing flower meanings. Anyway, I have zero (0) thoughts on this piece. Was very unambitious with it. OH, ALSO, 69TH WORK 
> 
> If you have any thoughts at all--or want the flower meanings!!--feel free to leave a comment! They mean a lot to me T_T <3
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com
> 
> (AO3 keeps tellingme I posted this... tomorrow? and now it's saying yesterday. okay. we're living with it.)


End file.
